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The work I need, the only work I need, is getting life out of my mind and into the world. These surface frustrations are fruitless. Being instead of thinking. Only, if it weren't being, it would be what? Living? Living instead of thinking? I guess that's right. Not having the comfort of a cigarette to silence the tension threw me. The ride calms. The writing on this CD says "on my mind". What better? I wrote a check for a pop, 5.71 in gas, and a pack of cigarettes. I went to another gas station, bought a five cent piece of gum to exchange nickels for a quarter so I could air my back tires. I drove. I didn't have a lighter, that pack is unopened. I torment myself for my own reasons, I think. The torment stopped when Ray Charles sang, after that it was just driving. After that it wasn't anything, there was music and road and someone who looked like me driving, but I was somewhere else or nowhere or more there than I've ever been but it wasn't normal. I needed that, the grasp. I don't mind when I get flustered, I do wish I could do a better job of waiting for the control to return.